The Honeymoon Suite
by chewiesgirlfriend
Summary: Jac and Fletch attend a conference at Cliche Hotel where their booking failed to go through and there's only one room left. (SPOILER ALERT: it's the honeymoon suite)
1. Chapter 1

"You have got to be kidding me."

Fletch winced, glancing around self-consciously as Jac's voice filled the mostly silent hotel lobby. An elderly woman looked up from her newspaper, frowning over her spectacles as the thoroughly pissed-off surgeon addressed the girl behind the front desk. He attempted to smile apologetically at her, but the gesture manifested itself as a grimace on his face and the woman merely frowned and returned to her reading.

"I'm very sorry, madam," the receptionist was stammering, her cheeks flushing to a shade similar to that of the insipid-pink wallpaper behind the desk. "There must have been an error on the system – it happens sometimes when we're at full capacity and-"

"That's your problem, not mine," came the blunt interjection. Jac's own complexion was devoid of all colour; she had been tense during the flight out and had barely spoken for the entire journey. Initially Fletch had put it down to lack of sleep, but he worried privately that there might be more to it. It had only been two months since she'd been shot, after all. Two months also since Ollie Valentine had been shot, and Raf... Fletch's knuckles whitened against the desk.

"Look, it doesn't matter," He cut across before either woman could speak again. He glanced across from Jac to the receptionist. "Can't you just book us in again?"

She blanched a little at his question. "Um, I'm afraid there's only one room left. It's, er…" she looked quickly down at the computer screen and her mildly uncomfortable expression morphed into one of abject embarrassment. "It's a double."

"Incredible," Jac snorted, shaking her head. Fletch swallowed, weighing up the options in his mind. The very-important-must-not-be-missed conference on cooperation between surgeons and nursing staff in cardiothoracic surgery, which Hanssen had of course decided they absolutely had to attend, started the next morning and they were practically in the middle of the Scottish highlands; there was no chance of finding a hotel near enough to get back there in time without them having to wake up at some ungodly hour each morning to travel across a few mountains, and as much as Fletch was terrified by the thought of sharing a room with Jac Naylor, he valued his sleep just a little more. Besides, they had grown fairly close over the past couple of months, and he would almost be inclined to call her a mate if it weren't for the fact that Jac had made it abundantly clear that she didn't do friends. Sharing a room with her for a few nights would be awkward, yes, but they were both adults, and both professionals at that.

Entertaining the thought, Fletch looked across at her. The amused expression slipped instantly from her face.

"Oh no," she said, shaking her head at him. "No way."

"It's only three nights," he reasoned.

"We can find another hotel."

"This is the only one for miles."

"I'm going back to Holby," Jac stated promptly. He let out a frustrated huff.

"Our return flight isn't until Saturday."

"Then I'll walk." She pursed her lips, meeting his gaze directly before fumbling for the handle of her suitcase.

"Jac." He reached out to grip the top of her arm. "It can't be that bad, surely." She raised an eyebrow at him and he quickly retracted his hand. "Sorry. Look, you can take the bed and I'll sleep on the floor - it is just for a couple of nights."

Her nostrils flared and there was a lengthy pause before she sighed, eyes fluttering closed in an admission of defeat. "Fine. But if you snore I'm kicking you out."

"Duly noted," he scoffed, turning back to the girl behind the desk, who looked equally bemused and terrified at the exchange that had taken place before her. "We'll take that room then please."

"Just a moment," she said, relief evident in her demeanour as she tapped at the computer keyboard for a few moments. "Okay, you're booked in. I'll just get the welcome booklet and the keycards for you."

"Thanks," Fletch smiled, all too aware of Jac sulking silently beside him. Once the receptionist had retreated a little to retrieve the keys, she looked up at him accusingly. "It's not my fault," he protested mildly. "And I'm not exactly happy about it either."

"Yeah? Well I'm calling dibs on the first shower," she huffed. "I'm going to kill Hanssen."

"Say the word and I'll lend a hand," he muttered in response. Jac seemed slightly taken aback by that, raising her eyebrows at him, but before she had the chance to comment on this newfound aggression towards their CEO the receptionist returned, sliding a plastic wallet and an envelope across the desk.

"There you go," she said with an apprehensive smile. "It's the third floor, right at the end. The dining hall is through that door over there – breakfast is from 7:30. And if you have any questions there'll always be someone on reception to help you out. There's more information in the welcome pack if you need it"

Jac had snatched up the documents before she managed to finish, and was storming across the lobby in the direction of the lift. Fletch had little choice but to smile apologetically and mutter a quick thanks to the receptionist before hurrying after her with both suitcases in tow. The room had fallen silent again, except for the clicks of Jac's heels against the marble floor and the faint hum of conversation from somewhere behind the far wall.

"You forgot something," he grumbled as they drew to a halt at the lift doors.

"If you meant my rationality, I was just wondering about that myself."

"I meant your suitcase," he scowled.

"Oh. So I did." She cast a small smile in his direction and he found it difficult to respond after that; Naylor smiles had been few and far between since the shooting, even if it was just the briefest twitch of her lips. Not that they had been particularly abundant before the shooting, he reminded himself quickly.

The doors of the lift opened, putting an abrupt stop to his musings and triggering another, distinctly less pleasant line of thought. As Jac stepped forwards into the cage the image of Raf's bleeding body manifested itself in his mind. It happened every time he stepped into the lift at Holby – he had taken to using the stairs to avoid repeated reminders of his best friend's death every time he wanted to move between wards, but for some reason he hadn't quite expected the image to follow him all the way to Scotland. Fletch squeezed his eyes shut, willing it away whilst he followed Jac into the lift, and yet that in itself was futile; the vision was practically branded into his memory. The doors slid shut.

If Jac noticed he was particularly absent during the brief journey to the third floor then she said nothing, and they passed it in silence. All the same, he was acutely aware of her breathing, hypersensitive to every noise and movement beside him, however slight. It was a reflex that had come about subconsciously, following her breakdown after operating alongside Gaskell, and was one which he could only compare to the way he instinctively knew whether one of the kids was upset or angry by small changes in their mannerisms. In a way he was glad of it; the sound of her soft exhales and the tapping of her fingers against the files she was carrying were a welcome distraction from the memory of Raf induced by their setting. Still, he was relieved to leave once the lift had pulled to a halt at the third floor, and followed Jac out into the hallway with uncharacteristic haste.

The corridor was long, as they often are in hotels, with the rooms on one side forming one side of the perimeter of the building, and Fletch was reminded of Summer holidays with the kids, when Natalie was still alive and they could afford holidays with the help of Tesco vouchers and input from her parents. A lot had changed since then.

As the expanse of doors and badly-chosen carpet dragged on, so too did the silence between him and Jac, and he began to wonder how much of her reluctance to speak was a result of the room situation. His thoughts were cut short however, this time by a short, humourless laugh from the surgeon in question.

"Oh, this is unreal."

"What is it?" He asked, tugging the suitcases the extra couple of metres to join her at the very end of the corridor. Jac pursed her lips, looking pointedly to the door of their allocated room, upon which an elegant golden script denoted their residence for the next three days.

"Welcome to the honeymoon suite, Fletcher."


	2. Chapter 2

Jac didn't fully relax until she was alone in the large bathroom, door locked behind her and the full force of the unusually spacious hotel shower beating down against her bare skin.

For a honeymoon suite, the room they had been given was fairly lacklustre in her eyes. Okay so they had a balcony looking out over the mountains, and there was at least a sofa which Fletch would be able to sleep on, not to mention the four-poster monstrosity of a bed she herself would be taking. And yet she couldn't help but feel that if she were the type to marry, and had recently done so, this room would be the last place on earth she would choose to stay. There was something about the hotel that unsettled her, perhaps its relative isolation in comparison to the urban safety-net of Holby. Then inevitably her mind returned to the shooting, and her previous thought seemed like a grim joke.

She exhaled slowly, fingers drifting across her torso to the now-familiar spot of marred skin on her back, where the bullet had ripped through flesh to exit her body. It was reduced now to a jagged pinkish line; she had seen it often enough in the mirror to know that. In time it would fade to pearly white, joining the host of other scars her body had become a canvas for. All blood comes from vessels. All bleeding comes from cut vessels. All bleeding eventually stops.

The sound of a fist tapping repeatedly at the bathroom door jerked her from her thoughts. Jac flinched, until a familiar voice called out her name, at which point she let out a frustrated huff and cut off the flow of the water to reply.

"What is it, Fletch?" She didn't bother trying to keep the annoyance from her tone.

"I'm going to see if I can get any food. Do you want anything?"

"I'm fine," she called back, leaning against the cool wall of the shower and closing her eyes. There was a slight pause before she added a small "thanks". When there was no response to that, she reached out and turned the water back on.

She grabbed the shampoo, glad to be alone with her thoughts once more. Being around Fletch outside of the hospital setting was infinitely more difficult than she had imagined possible; he had an irritating habit of routinely being able to see right through her, and so she had constructed the famous Naylor emotional barrier to keep him at arm's length. Only now they were stuck in the same damn hotel room together. For three days.

There were, of course, worse people to be sharing a room with. Fletch didn't annoy her as much as most of her other colleagues, in fact she had even started to enjoy his company in the weeks following the shooting, when he would be there at her bedside with his endless patience and a quick tongue to rival her own. The verbal sparring they engaged in so frequently then had become a part of routine, something to look forward to in the monotony of life as a patient. And yet there it was – 'as a patient'. The dynamics were different then; she was out of action, with no lives depending on her conduct and their bickering was over trivial things, like whether she could walk to the toilets unaccompanied or whether she would allow him to redress her wounds (she was perfectly capable of doing so herself, thank you very much). When she was back in action it had to stop.

So where did that leave them now? Stuck in a hotel in the middle of bloody nowhere, with no lives to save and nobody relying on them to be professional. A light blush that had nothing to do with the heat of the shower settled across her cheeks as she squeezed conditioner into her palm, the thought playing through her mind. A few years ago the situation would have been entirely different – she wouldn't have thought twice before jumping into bed with a man she found attractive if such a situation presented itself. But now… She chewed on her bottom lip. Now she was getting old; the skin around her eyes was softening, and she had Emma to think about, and for whatever reason she cared too much about Fletch for him to be just another fling. And therein lay the crux of the issue; Fletch was compassionate, and patient, and everything she wasn't, and somehow she hadn't managed to scare him off yet. Even during her breakdown he had stayed right there with her, held her up when her body was too wrought with untamed emotion to stand by itself, spoke aloud the feelings she was too afraid to give word to. Nobody had seen her like that before – not her mother, not Jonny, not even Joseph – and truthfully it terrified her.

Jac squeezed the last traces of conditioner from her hair and fumbled to turn off the water. She wouldn't allow anything like that to happen again. She had too much responsibility – as a surgeon and as a mother – to be afforded the privilege of vulnerability, and so when she stepped from the shower and drew a towel around her scarred torso it was as Holby's formidable Ice Queen, not the watered down mess of emotions she had let herself become over the past year. She sucked in the cool air of the bathroom, padding to the basin to study her reflection in the mirror; the mascara she had applied that morning had slipped from each lash, brushing sooty smudges below each eye, and she rubbed at them with her finger until they gave way to the flushed skin beneath.

"Pull yourself together, Naylor," she muttered to herself, lips pressing into a tight line as she turned from her reflection and fumbled for the pyjamas she had brought in with her. And yet despite her resolve to resurrect the infamous Ice Queen persona, she couldn't help but shiver when she dropped the towel and cold air assaulted her bare skin.

When Fletch returned Jac was cross-legged on the bed, dressed in the pyjamas she'd picked out and rubbing at her hair with a towel. She watched as his gaze swept over her, feeling an inexplicable rush of warmth pass down her body as he did so.

"Did you manage to get food?" She asked, hands settling with the towel in her lap. He flashed her a quick grin and held out two bundles of greaseproof paper.

"Chicken wraps," he announced. "I mentioned that my new wife was hungry and they dropped everything to whip these together." Jac glared at him.

"Very funny. I thought I said I didn't want anything."

Fletch left the doorway and made his way around to the foot of the bed before holding out one of the packages. "Come on, you barely ate on the plane."

"I didn't realise you were watching me so closely or I'd have made more of an effort," she grumbled. He responded by pressing his lips together and, tired of the argument, she took the wrap from his grasp and watched as he relaxed a little. "You know your psychological need to look after people is a little unnerving."

Fletch snorted at that, and Jac heard as he ripped at the paper containing the wrap. "Oh yeah?" he said after a small pause. She kept her gaze focused on the bundle in her hands, making no move to open it.

"Sacha's the same. All it means is that people can walk all over you and you just let it happen." Another pause, and then-

"Is that what you're doing right now?"

Jac blinked, the words inciting a surprisingly visceral reaction in her. Lips parting, she raised her head to look at him. He didn't meet her gaze.

"Fletch…" she began, a tugging in her gut prompting the word to slip from her tongue before she had given thought to what she would follow it up with.

"I'm going for a shower," he said before she had chance to continue. She pressed her lips together, eyes flitting back down to her lap, and just nodded by way of response. There was a drawn out silence, then the sound of rustling as he placed the uneaten wrap on the side, the slide of a zip announcing the opening of his suitcase, and the clicking of a lock as he shut himself in the bathroom.

Jac breathed out slowly, the indignance of a chastised child sweeping through her mind before it was swiftly replaced by a niggling sense of guilt. Fletch was so patient with her, and so willing to shoulder any insults or disparaging comments she threw his way, that it was easy sometimes to forget that he too was grieving. He hadn't been shot, and hadn't lost a sibling that year, but then Fletch was closer to Raf than she had ever been to Jasmine, and she had heard the jokes about their living arrangements thrown around all too often. He was hurting; it showed in his eyes when he smiled, a new sadness replacing the genuine mirth they had once displayed. And she hadn't failed to notice the way he had tensed up in the lift, a physical reaction which explained why he had been less punctual on Darwin since the shooting. Jac glanced up at the bathroom door as the sound of the shower filled the suite and silently cursed herself. So much for the return of the Ice Queen.

Fletch didn't re-emerge for quite some time; by the time he did Jac had finished the wrap and was skim-reading an article Elliot had forwarded to her, her damp hair swept over one shoulder and the towel discarded at the foot of the bed. She looked up sharply as the bathroom door swung open.

"You were hungry," he stated simply, glancing towards the bedside table where the empty paper lay, upon which a collection of crumbs nestled, the only remains of the meal he had sourced her.

"I'm sorry," Jac said in response, spitting the words out quickly as if they were toxic. His expression shifted then into one of bewilderment and her lips quirked upwards into a tiny smile. "You look like I just grew another head or something."

A small chuckle escaped his lips and he sank down into the sofa, reaching for his own wrap which he had placed on the coffee table before. "It's not every day Jac Naylor apologises to you."

She glanced down, shouldering the barely-veiled criticism and tapping at the tablet screen to close the article she had been reading. "Well, it occurred to me that psychoanalysing you when you've just been looking out for me was…"

"Sanctimonious," he offered up as she paused to find the right word. "Insensitive. Ungrateful."

Jac glared at him. "I was going to say unfair. Don't make me change my mind." Fletch grinned at that, biting into the wrap and allowing them to lapse into silence whilst he chewed and swallowed. She watched him through her lashes for a moment, twisting her fingers together self-consciously in her lap before speaking again. "Besides, if we're going to be sharing a room for the next three days I hardly want you sulking at me the entire time."

"That's more like the Jac I know," he said around a mouthful of chicken. She suppressed a smile, but any reply she might have given was cut off by the sound of his text alert. Fletch squirmed in his seat to retrieve his mobile from the back pocket of his jeans and glanced down at the screen.

"Who is it?" Jac asked, feigning indifference.

"Evie," he replied, his face lighting up. "Theo's conked out on the sofa so she's sent a picture."

"Who are they staying with?" She couldn't help the jealous pang she felt; Fletch had always been incredible with children, and it was something that hadn't come naturally to her at all. Of course she loved Emma, wanted to give her the best start in life possible, and god help anyone who got in her way, but she just wasn't able to capture her child's attention the way he could.

"They're with their grandma," he said vaguely, tapping out a response to his daughter. "Is Emma with Jonny?"

Jac murmured a confirmation. "He's doing reduced hours for a few days and the nanny is helping out as well."

"You don't sound very happy about it."

She bit her lip. "I don't like being away from her. Especially not since the shooting – we tried to keep as much from her as possible but she knew something was up."

"Kids are good at noticing when anything's even slightly wrong," Fletch offered up a sympathetic smile. "And Emma's bright – you couldn't have kept it from her completely, no matter how hard you tried."

"No," she murmured. "But I still feel guilty."

"Jac-"

"I'm supposed to protect her from things like this." She shook her head, a humourless smile playing on her lips. "I'm her mother, for god's sake."

"D'you think I managed to protect my lot from losing Raf? From losing their mother?" he challenged, and Jac felt something in her yield at the note of desperation in his voice. "That's just life, Jac. Besides, you can't shield her forever."

"I know," she spoke softly. "And I'm sorry. About Raf. I know you two were close, and I never said-"

"You'd been shot," he chuckled. "You had bigger fish to fry."

"So did you," she said, voice dropping to an almost-whisper, unable for some reason to raise her eyes to meet his. "It didn't stop you from looking after me."

There was a pause, during which it was impossible to gauge his response. Then a slow exhale. "Yeah, well, it's all part of the job."

"No," Jac shook her head, lips twitching. "You and I both know you'd have done exactly the same thing if you hadn't gone into nursing." When she finally risked a glance up at him, Fletch was studying her, eyes slightly narrowed. She swallowed, and the motion must have jerked him from his thoughts for he looked away self-consciously.

"Well, it's all part of my psychological need to look after people, no doubt," he said, quoting her earlier criticism of him word-for-word. Jac winced.

"I didn't mean to say that," she said feebly.

"You did," he retaliated, a playful note slipping into his voice. "It's okay. I've had worse."

"Worse than me?" She raised her eyebrows at that, using the action to visibly suppress the relief she felt at the lighter tone their conversation had regained.

"Ah, I never said that."

"Good." She offered up a small smile in his direction and he returned the expression without hesitation. The atmosphere in the room shifted at the brief exchange and Jac felt her skin tingle, charged with the same energy that pervaded the air before a storm. She swallowed, suddenly nervous, and broke the eye contact to check the time on her phone. The illuminated display showed that it was just a few minutes past midnight. "It's late."

Fletch murmured a vague agreement, and she watched out of her peripheral as he stood and crossed the room to retrieve a spare blanket from the drawers before laying it over the sofa. She grabbed one of the pillows from near the headboard and slipped from the large bed to pass it to him.

"Thanks," he said, and Jac could feel the warmth from his hands as he took it from her. Her toes curled into the soft carpet as her body resisted against the part of her mind that was begging her to step forwards, immerse herself in another of his embraces and stay there, conference be damned.

"Don't snore," was all she said instead, tilting her chin up to look at him for a moment before she crossed into the safety of the bathroom once more to brush her teeth. She observed her reflection from the corner of her eye, avoiding looking directly for fear of what she might see; whatever walls she had mentally constructed upon her last inspection had disintegrated quickly in minutes of Fletch's presence. Who knew what three days in his company could do to her.


	3. Chapter 3

Fletch slept soundly for a solid three hours or so until the faint hum of the bathroom fan nudged its way through his slumber and stirred him into consciousness. Disorientated and stiff from the awkward position in which he had slept, he fumbled for the armrest of the sofa with one hand and eased himself upright with a soft groan.

A narrow sliver of white light from the slightly-ajar bathroom door was reaching across the room, bending upwards as it hit the foot of the bed and then illuminating the sheets, which had been thrown back. Jac must be using the bathroom for something, he mused, turning his head to glance at the source of the light and wincing at the dull pain in his neck as he did so. It was probably best not to disturb her.

He was just in the process of rearranging his bedding, as quietly as possible so as not to alert Jac to his awakeness, when a sharp intake of breath sounded from behind the bathroom door. His brow furrowed, and he released his grip on the pillow to glance round again. It sounded like she was in pain.

"Jac?" He called out cautiously.

"I'm fine," came the terse response. "Go back to sleep, Fletch."

The room lapsed into silence again and Fletch frowned before carefully disentangling his legs from the blanket and finding the carpeted floor with his feet. Focusing on remaining quiet, he stood slowly and padded around the sofa to the bathroom door. For a few moments his bleary vision was saturated by the synthetic white lights, and then slowly they adjusted to the sight before him.

Jac was stood with her back to him, facing the unreasonably large mirror that adorned the far wall of the bathroom. She was bathed in the harsh light so that her angular features were even more pronounced, and her head was turned downwards ever so slightly, baring the sweeping shadow below her right cheekbone to the mirror. Her attention was fixed upon her left side, the skin of which was exposed; she was holding up the hem of her pyjama top with her left hand whilst using the other to gently map out the new marks which adorned her body.

Just as he was taking in her pained expression, her reflected gaze met his and it was replaced by one of indignance. Her hands moved to tug the pyjama top back down, but Fletch stepped into the bathroom, putting aside the sudden sense of voyeurism he felt having caught her in such a seemingly-innocuous but equally deeply intimate act. Jac Naylor didn't do vulnerability. The marble-coldness of the floor sank into the soles of his bare feet.

"Let me see," he said then. The words felt unnaturally loud against the otherwise-total silence of the room, exaggerated in volume by the tiled walls. In the mirror, Jac pursed her lips slightly, but did not speak and instead reached again for the hem of the shirt with quivering fingers and lifted it.

Suddenly wide awake, Fletch took a few steps into the bathroom until he was stood behind her, the front of his body tingling from their proximity. Her eyes never left his, and had taken on the wary, half-guarded wideness of a feral cat; they left the mirror finally as he slowly lowered himself to his knees, only to seek out his gaze again as she twisted to look at him properly for the first time. The movement, small as it was, caused a small flicker of discomfort to ripple across her face, and Fletch instinctively reached out as if to touch the two corresponding scars.

At the last moment he drew back, conscious of her boundaries. His gaze lowered to his hands before searching hers again, requesting permission.

"Can I…" he began, but even before he started to speak Jac was nodding, lips parted. He swallowed, acknowledging her silent acceptance and focusing once more upon his trembling hands as they drew closer to her exposed body.

As the tips of his fingers made contact with the hot skin of her waist, the muscles beneath the surface tensed visibly, although he was unsure as to whether her reaction was down to the cold contrast of his skin against hers or to any pain the slight touch might have caused her. However, after a brief moment she relaxed again, and he exhaled, pausing for only a moment before commencing his gentle examination. His fingers began to trace the indent beneath her lowest rib, following the groove until it dipped and melted into the hollow of her back, where he was met by the flushed and stretched skin of the scar formed after the bullet had ripped through her body upon its exit. He ran a finger over the mark, noticing how the fine hairs dotting her back, stained white under the harsh lighting, stood on end at the faint contact.

"Does it hurt much?" he asked in an almost-whisper.

"Sometimes," came the breathy reply, and he glanced up, startled at her honesty. She was staring back at him through heavy-lidded eyes, expression unreadable. A curious and intense feeling threatening to burst from his chest, Fletch nodded and returned his attention to her back. More confident now, and assured in her acceptance of his ministrations, he braced his hands upon her hips, applying a little rotational pressure until she understood and obediently shuffled around so that the scar on her stomach was facing him and the cool air of his exhalations danced across her skin intermittently.

This scar was smaller in size, but starker in its contrast to her pale, smooth skin, and he took a moment to just stare at the wound that had almost claimed her life. He knew that her surgery had been a close call – Essie had told him as much – but he had never appreciated the gravity of her injuries quite as much as now, with the obscene bathroom light gloating at him where it bounced from the unnaturally glossy skin of the scar.

"It's healed up nicely," he spoke, voice taking on the clinical detachment he might assume with any patient, even as his trembling fingers betrayed him. "You did well to avoid infection."

"I'm a surgeon, Fletch," she said with a soft snort, her words an uncharacteristically gentle reminder that she was not his patient, and wouldn't stand to be treated as such.

"I know," he conceded with a small smile, "but you weren't exactly the easiest person to treat."

His words were met with a tentative smile of her own, and she moved then to ease the hem of her shirt back over her scarred back and stomach. Fletch retracted his hands and stood, suddenly aware of how close they were. He could feel the puffs of her breath against his neck as she tilted her head upwards slightly to look at him, something expectant lingering in her gaze. Neither of them said anything, however, and the intensity that had crackled almost tangibly in the short space between them began to dissipate as he glanced down self-consciously. She followed suit, shuffling slightly on the spot.

"We should get back to bed," he suggested, colour flooding his cheeks once he realised the implications of the statement. "Uh, I mean, you should get back to bed and I'll get back to the sofa."

Jac's eyes had widened somewhat at his former statement, but she masked the expression quickly as he recovered it, and took a step back, nodding. "Right, yeah. Early start. I'm sorry I woke you."

"It's alright," he said quickly, placing a hand on her arm. "Do you have enough painkillers?"

"Yes. Thank you."

He nodded, withdrawing his arm. "Okay. Well, goodnight."

"Night, Fletch."

There was an awkward moment as they both tried to exit the bathroom at the same time, and Fletch chuckled, standing back to allow her through the doorway first. She murmured a quiet thanks, and he watched as she crossed the room delicately, passing through the white beam of light to clamber back into bed. Once she had tugged the sheets back over her petite frame, Fletch fumbled for the light switch and the room was plunged into blackness once more.

Neither of them spoke about the incident the next morning, although Fletch paid close attention to her expressions as she was getting ready, noticing that she was grimacing at certain movements. When they left the honeymoon suite, she led him past the lift with a curious look in her eyes, directing them instead towards the stairwell so that he could descend to breakfast without being confronted by the haunting image of his best friend bleeding to death. Somehow, somewhere along the line, Jac had started to care about him. The thought made him strangely happy.

The conference was, predictably, about as interesting as Fletch imagined Hanssen's browsing history to be. He contributed a few times to the discussion, striking up a debate at one point with a dark-haired neurosurgeon, who had been sitting mostly in stony silence save for the occasional raising of a sculpted eyebrow or a muttered remark that didn't quite reach the ear. They threw arguments back and forth for a few minutes, until the issue of nurses' pay came up and a few other medics joined the conversation. Fletch had almost forgotten about the exchange until Jac brought it up over a drink later. They had eaten dinner and headed straight to the hotel bar, exhausted but not quite ready to retire to their room for the night.

"You held your ground well against Lomas," she remarked casually, one eyebrow arching up as she smiled at him over her glass. "She doesn't suffer fools, so the fact that she bothered to debate with you is quite impressive."

Fletch spluttered. "You know her?"

"Our paths have crossed," she said. It occurred to him then that Jac probably knew most of the medical professionals in the room, and he didn't doubt that every single one of them knew her. Working by her side day in, day out, it was easy to forget just how distinguished a surgeon she was. He smiled to himself, looking down at his glass and swilling the golden liquid.

"D'you like her?"

"She's a formidable surgeon," Jac said with a shrug. "I admire her. But on a personal level? Well, I wouldn't trust her."

He studied her as she spoke, observing the alcohol-induced flush that had begun to grace her pale face. Had he been around a drunken Jac Naylor before? Probably multiple times at Albie's, but never in such close proximity. He wondered idly what type of drunk she would be, taking another sip of whiskey to conceal the involuntary smile that crept onto his lips at the thought, then noticing that both of their glasses were almost empty.

"Another round?" Fletch suggested, the question earning him a smirk in response.

"Well, it'd be rude to say no."

He grinned at her, downing his drink before slipping from his seat and heading across the crowded room to the bar, finding a space to squeeze in between a group of women and a man, who Fletch recognised as someone who had been particularly vocal in the conference. The women were absorbed in their own conversation and barely acknowledged his presence, but the man offered up a smile, which he returned easily enough.

"Alex Lin, general surgeon at the John Radcliffe," he said by way of introduction. Fletch studied him for a moment; he was tall and dark-haired, and appeared to be a little younger, although Fletch put that down to his lack of facial hair.

"Adrian Fletcher, Director of Nursing at Holby City," he returned at last, placing his glass down. "You spoke well in there. I agreed with pretty much all of your points."

The other man grinned, sipping from his pint. "Ahh, thanks. You too. That neurosurgeon was a bit of a beast, wasn't she?"

"I've had worse," Fletch said ruefully, glancing across to where Jac sat briefly, twisting the stem of her empty wine glass idly between her fingers. Alex followed his gaze.

"Is that Jac Naylor? What's she doing here? Wasn't she shot just a few months back?"

"She's recovered, not that it's any of your business," came the defensive reply, a little too quickly. The surgeon raised an eyebrow but said nothing and Fletch silently berated himself for his response. "Sorry. The shooting… well, it's still a sore spot for a lot of us."

"Of course," Alex said smoothly. "I'm sorry."

Fletch relaxed, dipping his head in silent acknowledgement of the apology. He was just searching for something to say when he was interrupted by the attention of the bartender, and turned from Alex to lean over the bar and give his order.

"Hi, a large pinot grigio and a straight scotch please."

"Straight?" Came the amused quip beside him. "That's a shame."

"Sorry?" Fletch frowned, entering his PIN into the card reader whilst the bartender sorted out the drinks.

Alex laughed. "I was hitting on you, mate. But I can see now that you don't swing that way." He cast a pointed look at Jac. Fletch felt blood rush to his cheeks at both assumptions.

"Oh! Well, I mean I've never really given it much thought…" That was a lie; he had thought about his sexuality a lot when he and Raf had started living together but had put it firmly to the back of his mind for the sake of the kids. And whilst Alex was undeniably attractive, with his angular features and dark eyes, Fletch lacked the emotional energy to begin thinking along those lines again. Besides, he had Jac to consider… not that he knew what the hell was going on there. She had seemed so keen to keep him at a safe distance, and yet had been so vulnerable with him the night before. That brought him onto Alex's second assumption- "And Jac and I aren't… we're not…"

"Sure," came the knowing response. "You two have a good night, yeah? And hey, if you ever give the issue a bit more thought…" he took one of the cardboard coasters from the surface of the bar and scribbled a series of numbers down with a pen from his pocket. "Give me a call."

Fletch offered up an embarrassed smile as Alex tucked the coaster into his jacket pocket. Before he had time to respond, however, a bang echoed around the room. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Jac leap to her feet and press herself against the wall behind her chair, the colour draining from her face. He scanned the room quickly until he found the source of the noise – a red-faced man who had just knocked over a barstool.

"I've got to go," he said quickly to Alex to excuse himself. "It was nice to meet you."

Any reply the man might have given was lost as Fletch pushed his way past the crowd at the bar, holding the drinks carefully to avoid spillage. The rest of his attention was focused on getting to the redhead at the far end of the room, who was sinking shakily into her chair again as he reached her.

"Jac, you okay?" he asked gently, placing the drinks down and reaching out to touch her arm. She flinched away instinctively, but relaxed as she looked up to meet his concerned gaze, and nodded. He pressed his lips together in a small smile, and briefly squeezed her arm before releasing it and moving to the other side of the table to sit down.

"The noise, it uh, it just startled me," she said, cheeks pink.

"Some guy at the bar knocked his stool over," he explained.

Jac took a large sip from the wine he had brought over. When she placed the glass down, she raised a hand to dry her lips. Fletch followed the movement with his eyes. "Who was that man you were talking to?" she asked.

"A general surgeon from the John Radcliffe," he replied, before adding wryly, "he knew your name."

She cast him a smug smile. "I should hope so. What did you talk about?"

Fletch felt a blush rise in his cheeks again. "He, uh, he gave me his number. Wanted to know if I was that way inclined."

Jac's eyebrows shot up. "Wow." She opened her mouth to speak again, then must have thought better of it for she closed it again abruptly and glanced down at her glass.

"What is it?" he prompted.

"I- uh, I just wondered if you were that way inclined."

He chuckled. "Now why would you want to know that?"

"Professional interest," she suggested mildly, although a look of abject mortification was creeping onto her face with every second. "Only it's been a while since you've… you know, dated a woman."

"I'm not gay, Jac."

"Right," she said, flustered. "Well, that's… good to know."

"Is it?" He raised his eyebrows.

"Yes," she said abruptly and met his gaze, doe-eyed. Fletch stared back, his lips parting in an uncertain smile. It turned out alcohol only intensified Jac Naylor's ability to confound him.

"Right."

They lapsed into silence, Fletch downing the rest of his drink whilst Jac tapped at the edge of the table, clearly lost in thought. As he placed down his glass she seized the opportunity to move on from the awkward turn their conversation had taken.

"Another round? I'll get this one."

Fletch assented and watched, bemused, as she darted from the table and melted into the throng surrounding the bar. He wondered privately, as the last glimpse of red hair slipped into concealment behind a wall of people, if he would ever be able to understand her.

All he knew was that he really wanted to.


End file.
